


Shadow Box

by Kalael



Series: Remain Nameless [1]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen, I can't decide on pairings, Powerswap AU, so there's just not going to be any pairings until the next installment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-05 17:05:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalael/pseuds/Kalael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She collects the things he brings to her, and he collects the things that he’s forgotten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There is a locket tucked beneath his collar and it’s clamped shut by a dent just over the clasp. He has never been able to open it, and though it is useless and dulled by age, he has never taken it off. He keeps it hidden and it is a small weight against his chest, cold and lifeless and somehow more meaningful than any of his nightmares could ever be.

He has no idea where it is from, who gave it to him, or why he has it. But it remains nonetheless.

Sometimes when the voices in his head are too loud to bear, he pulls out the tarnished metal and rubs his thumb across the hard surface. It doesn’t quiet the screaming _(the girl the nightmares the thousands of nightmares)_ , but it grounds him when the noise is too much. It’s a little pathetic that he has relied on a little trinket over the countless years, but the locket still shines where he has rubbed it constantly and he wonders if maybe, someday, he will be able to finally prise it open and see what secrets are kept within it.

\----

He does not sleep because he does not dream. He has nightmares of things that should not frighten him—blood and tears and screaming voices, having no control of his body as it marches forward into fire, fur beneath his fingernails and between his teeth—but it isn’t as though he needs to sleep anyway. It just passes the time. And since the end of the Dark Ages, there has been plenty of time on his hands. The fearlings gnash their teeth at him, braying and tossing their heads as they prepare to close in on him and feed on his fear _(no faith no belief no memories nothing)._

Jack snarls at them and they are forced back, because he is the king of fear and they must obey him.

He has been this way for as long as he can remember. Black veins and shadowed cloak and amber eyes, a wraith in the night with demons at his beck and call. It’s been eternity. Certainly long before this place was created, and there is something wrong with the world that he resides in. He knows there are other planets (he has destroyed and devoured many of them) but this one has sucked him dry and left him a shade of who he was. He’d been powerful, once, but exile on Earth has ruined him. He is bitter (but some part of him is glad and he can’t explain why). Of course there is still fear, there is always fear, but they don’t fear _him_ and that is such a change from the old days, the end of the Golden Age when he first came into being and everyone knew his name.

They called him many things back then. Some of them seemed to know him—but it was strange that they might think that, when he had been so newly formed and his name is not _Jackson_. He is a conglomeration of shadows and nightmares and monsters that hunger to snuff out of the light (all of the little lights on the globe every last little believer).

 _I am Legion_ , he thinks, amused. The devil has nothing on him, although possessions and hauntings were never really up his alley. That requires a large time commitment to a single person, and Jack only does that when he feels there is enough potential in his victim. A certain few authors and musicians were a testament to his... _dedication._

But it had been years since he’d felt strong enough to take on a task of that undertaking. Belief in him had been waning, was shrivelling, and something buried beneath the monsters in his head is beginning to surface.

A small voice, a little girl, who calls out his name with such desperation that he should be taking pleasure in her terror. But she calls and cries, and all Jack wants to do is find her and pull her into himself so that she won’t sound so alone.

_I am here, little girl, I am here I am here I am here just please **come find me**_

She never answers, of course. She isn’t real, just as he himself isn't real. ‘Jack’ is a creation of nightmares and he is no one without them.

He is a monster.

He knows this because the fearlings told him so.


	2. Chapter 2

In the Golden Age they are a small and somewhat broken family, but they get by. Overland is a well-known name, and although his father is gone Jackson is proud to be the son of a war hero. He aspires to be like him and at fourteen, he is ready to join the Royal Military Academy on the moon. His mother kisses his forehead and his sister cries and cries and cries, but Jackson bundles her into his arms and presses his face into her hair. She's still so small, so tiny against his chest and he almost can't bear to leave her. But he must go and he kisses her little nose to try and make her smile.

“I’ll write to you as often as I can, and I’ll come see you as often as possible, so please don’t cry.” He says, almost pleading because he can’t stand her tears. Emma sniffles loudly and grips his vest in her tiny fists.

“I’ll miss you, though.” She butchers the words as they stumble out of her mouth, her voice hoarse from crying. Jackson can feel his heart break but he smiles brightly.

“I’ll miss you too. But it isn’t forever. I promise I’ll come home.” He solemnly swears to her, and gradually Emma loosens her grip enough so that Jackson can set her down and grab his bag. He waves goodbye, and tries not to look back once the ship sets sail. When he finally gives in and turns around the dock is out of sight, but he swears that he can see the faint imprints of his mother and sister waiting on the horizon.

He keeps his promise. He writes every week, though the length of the letters varies. Emma never seems to mind, as she sends back cheerful notes with her scratchy handwriting and slowly improving spelling. Every holiday and every break Jackson comes home, turning down invitations for plans from classmates and instructors so that he can see his sister instead. The Academy is rough but Jackson pushes himself in his classes. He still gets into trouble because no matter how intelligent or diligent he is in class, he is just as much of a mischief-maker as ever. The teachers never really grow to to appreciate his cleverly thought out pranks, but they do see his potential for putting those plans to other uses.

They take him from the regular courses and push him into an advanced track, forcing him to work even harder than before just to keep up with his new classmates. They tease him mercilessly—Jackson Overland, son of a hero, barely able to do basic arithmetic—but when it comes to games of strategy he takes down the opposing teams with ease. He only shines brighter when they take the games to the practice field, wooden swords clattering to the ground as Jackson utilizes agility over strength.

In the winter he is a hot commodity for his sheer brutality in snowy warfare. Those weak to the cold don’t stand a chance against his stealthy snowball attacks.

His growing popularity with his peers comes to an abrupt halt when the war picks up. It had been going on for years, this war against the fearlings, but it had been a quiet presence to those who were not involved. Jackson, of course, could never have forgotten about the war that took his father from him. However, the rest of the students are rattled by the news of an attack on the Capital. A large number of casualties and missing persons stirs up panic at the Academy. Those who are weaker-willed drop out of the program. Jackson remains.

One by one his classmates in the advanced courses disappear, leaving to join the militias that have begun to crop up everywhere from the furthest stars to right there on the moon. The Academy is a shadow of its former glory, the security is getting thin. It’s not uncommon to run across a stray fearling on the school grounds, and Jackson will never forget their squelching black blood or the awful smell they release as they dissipate beneath the force of his blade. Real swords are far heavier than the wooden ones they had been practicing with.

Even after a year of training Jackson is still too skinny to wield his father’s broadsword. Maybe someday. But for now he cleans his rapier and waits for the post to arrive with a letter from his sister.

\--

_Dear Jackson,_

_I miss you. Of course, you’re thinking, of course she misses me! But I do. It’s harder without you. Mama is sad, even if she pretends not to be. She worries. I also worry. We hear noises at night and it isn’t the floorboards or mice._

_I’m scared._

_Please come home soon._

_All of my love,_

 

 

\--

Jack remembers the scent of parchment and the feeling of a battered quill held in ink-spattered fingers. He doesn’t remember writing letters, or who he would write them to. There has never been anyone to keep contact with. Everyone he has met has either tried to kill him, or been killed.

He keeps a bottle of ink in the room that serves as his office, and it remains unopened. There are others that he uses to write out plans and mark maps, but this bottle gathers dust in a drawer. It’s a cheap ink, nothing special, but one day he may use it to write a letter. It’s a foolish thought. The fearlings mock him for it and laugh when he cradles the ink bottle in his hands.

_(The little girl cries out, wordless vowels, the smell of parchment clinging to her echoes)_

Jack crushes the bottle in his fist, shards of glass piercing his skin. His blood is indistinguishable from the ink. He tips his hand and the wreckage of the bottle slides from his palm to the floor.

_drip_

_drip_

_drip_

There are little droplets of ink-blood on the stone now, and Jack drags his foot through it. It smears like water and glistens like oil.

The fearlings quiver at his rage.

“Let’s have some fun.” He says.

 

It’s not the first time a building has burned before him, but the postmarked envelopes that flutter to the ground are a new sight. They turn to ash at his feet.

 

He isn’t satisfied.


	3. Chapter 3

In the lull of darkness just before dawn, the fearlings whisper of a long-past war. A war that Jack had ended rather unwittingly after his creation, when he had eradicated many of the fearlings' opposers. They croon in their grating voices, clawed shadow hands running over his face and shoulders, praising his ruthlessness. Jack lays silently in their lair, staring at the craggy rocks and empty cages above him. He's glad that they're happy; happy fearlings means quieter fearlings. The quieter they are the easier it is to sit and think.

He needs to make a move soon. The Guardians are growing in strength and they are forgetting their place--the balance. They think they can erase fear? Sheer stupidity. They would be condemning the children to death, and though Jack is not so innocent, he has never found much pleasure in the little animal screams of a dying child. (It's too much like the girl like the little girl)

The nightmares have taken the shape of horses, and the irony is not lost on Jack. He absently runs a hand over the wispy mane of a nightmare and it snorts. Although they are pretty in their own way, they aren’t meant to be kept indoors. He will have to release them outside if he wants to keep them...manageable.

The fearlings clamor around him.

It’s time.

 

\--

 

When he is sixteen he is given the opportunity to work as a page for the Captain of the Guard, and his first mission is to accompany one of the royal ambassadors on a trip to Sirius for a small diplomatic gathering. It isn’t a particularly dangerous trip but the journey is long, and Emma cries for what feels like an eternity when Jackson comes home to pack his bag.

With help from their mother, however, she fashions a locket and gives it to Jackson the morning of his departure. She will never forget the surprised look on his face, or the absolute love in his eyes as he slips the gold chain around his neck.

“I’ll come back. I promise.” He says. He kisses her forehead and hugs their mother and then the ship is departing. Jackson waves until he’s out of sight, one hand clutching the locket that contains a small portrait of his mother and Emma.

It takes a week longer than it should have but Jackson does come home. He walks in with bruises and cuts and there will be scars but he is home and that’s what matters. Emma doesn’t cry this time but their mother does, and Jackson is all smiles even as he is scolded for worrying them. He always smiles for them.

She learns to smile for him as well, even when he departs once more. He is making a name for himself, their mother says, and soon Jackson will be rising through the ranks. He must get it from their father.

That thought only makes Emma worry. She remembers what happened to their father. Jackson is following his footsteps and she can only pray that he won’t follow them into the grave.

“I promise I’ll come home.” Jackson swears this every time her leaves and he always comes home with gifts to make up for his absence, as though the baubles will ease the pain. Emma keeps a shadowbox of everything that Jackson brings her. It’s a small wooden thing that they built together, and it shows in the way that the paste sticks out at the edges and how the shelves are chipped by their unsteady hands. The little cubby holes are too small to hold much, but Jackson only brings tiny trinkets back with him. Thimbles made of glittering star rocks, tiny floral-patterned stones, dried four leaf clovers and miniature carvings all find a home in that shadow box.

Jackson is seventeen when an attack on the largest starfleet in the army leaves their forces severely crippled. Emma remembers the broadcast of the aftermath, debris floating in space and not a body to be seen. The fearlings left no prisoners. Jackson is sent home, his face pale and eyes blank.

“The capital was also attacked.” He whispers to their mother when they think Emma is asleep. “The Academy is now the military’s homebase, it’s the only one that hasn’t been compromised. They’ve begun recruiting, reassigning...”

“No, they can’t!” Mother exclaims. Emma clasps her hands over her mouth, not even daring to breathe.

“I’ve got a good recommendation, Lieutenant General Ambros said he’s willing to take me on-”

“But he’s on the front lines!” Emma can hear in their mother’s voice that she is already resigned to this. She knows that Jackson will be sent out. There are too few soldiers in the field now, and even those like Jack with minimal experience are better than no one.

“They’ve promoted me, Mother. Lieutenant Overland. I can’t exactly say no.”

“Are they so desperate that they would send children into the line of fire?”

“We’re all desperate.” Jackson says softly. That is all Emma can bear to hear before she hurries back to her room, stifling her cries with a pillow.

Jackson receives his letter a week later and he packs up to join the Lieutenant General on some distant star at the outskirts of the galaxy, in the middle of combat. Emma and their mother do not cry. They stand dry eyed at the dock as the ship departs. Jackson does not wave goodbye, but almost as an afterthought he calls out, “I promise I’ll come home!”

Emma wishes that she could put promises into her shadowbox and look at them whenever she is frightened that Jackson will not be able to keep his vow. Instead she presses the stones and thimbles and carvings into her palms until they leave deep imprints on her skin, a painless reminder that Jackson has always returned to them.

 

\--

 

“I’ll be back soon.” Jack says, his voice echoing in the empty lair. There is no response, of course. He isn’t sure why he says that every time he leaves. The Nightmares clamor around him and one of them nudges his arm, impatient to get moving. It’s a new moon, perfect for the first strike against the Guardians. He will start small, infecting the dreams of children with terror before moving on to bigger, better things. Jack smiles unpleasantly as he joins the Nightmares on their first run. He’d always wanted to see the inside of Santa’s workshop. Maybe that would be his next target.

He pockets a trinket from some child’s room without even thinking about it, thumbing the porcelain thimble in his pocket before moving on.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow an update
> 
> wow this is messy
> 
> wow I don't care


End file.
